The Charmer
by lulusgardenfli
Summary: They say you're the nice one. With your deep dimples, wide grin and charm...


They say you're the nice one.

With your deep dimples, wide grin and charm.

Always you and the charm!

The way you call women 'ma'am' but don't make them feel old.

Only you can get away with that.

The way you can coax anyone into a conversation; even that mean kid with the frozen smirk, sharp teeth and vacant eyes. You get him to chuckle.

It's a harsh chuckle. But it's something.

You get me to open up.

I tell you about living in Florida. How everyone talked about me behind my back. I was 'fat' and 'cheap' and 'loose' and 'slutty' and a 'tramp.'

You tell me, "I'm so sorry Sandy" and "that really sucks."

And it did, it really did.

We kiss Your lips are cherry red from the popsicle you just ate. They are soft, except for a piece of chapped skin on the top.

But your tongue…

Goes down my throat.

You unzip your pants.

I tell you how I would stick my toe in the water. One toe. And pull it out.

I dreamt of drowning. The muddy water suffocates me, my lungs fill with bubbles. Until there is more water floating inside of me than outside. Sinking. I am.

I speak fast. You speak slowly. Careful. Rounding out each syllable.

You hold my hand and squeeze. Hard.

You're the only person I've ever told.

The way you look at strangers in the eyes-like they are the only person in the room.

You do that to me too. It doesn't matter if we are two in a crowd of thousands at a football game, or alone in the backseat of your brother's truck.

You stare at me with an intense gaze. You want to devour me. But only after you say 'please' and 'thank you'

You are a gentleman. You hold to door open for me. Always.

We are sixteen and going steady.

Even my mother likes you. _My mother._

My brother thinks you're too soft at first with your long, thick lashes, high cheekbones and big brown eyes.

He's never seen the way your eyes look at me, the way your gaze pricks my skin and sends shivers down my spine.

The way you look when you are on the hunt.

The way you let everything out when you race cars or ride horses.

But you win him over.

With your devil-may-care attitude, boldness and love of fighting.

You win everyone over.

Except me.

It's not your fault. On paper you're perfect: nice, attractive and charming. A lover and a fighter. You make me laugh. And, oh, so charming. Always, with the charm.

But I don't want that.

Or maybe I do.

I don't know.

I don't know what I want; I don't know who I want. I am only sixteen.

So are you.

But you have it all figured out.

You wrap your arms around me. Because I'm your girl. You tell everyone. You are so proud of me.

You have our lives mapped out like stars in the night sky.

I'm going to graduate from high school, maybe go to college. You say.

You're going to get a better job.

You don't know where or how.

You ask me if I want to have four or five kids, or maybe six or seven. You laugh like you are telling a joke.

Your laugh is gentle.

But your eyes are serious. They scare me.

You know exactly what you want.

I don't want any children. Not now. Maybe, not ever.

Yet for all of your dreams you can't picture yourself beyond the 5 block radius that makes up our neighborhood.

I feel trapped, like a caged animal. I cannot wait to leave, my house, high school, this neighborhood. Maybe, even you.

I ask if you want to go back to school.

With a twinkle in your eyes, your lips curled like Elvis, you look at me, 'naw baby.'

I laugh and you hug me.

But I think, of being stuck in a small house with a bunch of children with your beautiful eyes, your dimples and your lopsided, sweet grin.

And I don't want it.

You put everyone ahead of yourself. Even me. I should be grateful. I should be touched. But I'm not.

Do you know how scary that is?

Do you have any idea how frightening it is to be with a sixteen year old kid who will do anything to make his girl happy? Who loves with an intensity that makes me feel like I'm drowning?

You try too hard.

Your world revolves around your brothers, and then your buddies. But you always make room for me.

You're the best listener I've ever met. And that scares me. Maybe more than anything.

Because I think of all the secrets I've told you. You know them all.

You know me better than I know myself. You talk to me. But you never judge me.

You're my best friend.

But you know everything about me and I know so little about you. It's not fair.

On the surface you're raw and real.

And how can I not see you as anything but an open book when your emotions overwhelm me?

Everything is so intense with you. There is no room for relaxation, no room for breathing in deeply, or sitting, or letting go.

No room to think. Only do. Only feel.

You make me dizzy. Every day is like New Year's Eve. You twirl me around and get me drunk, just by looking into my eyes.

You are constantly on the move. You drive over the speed limit, but put your arm out to protect me from falling forward through the windshield.

You make sure I wear a seat belt.

You don't always wear yours.

I can't keep up with you.

You're so protective of everyone else, so thoughtless when it comes to yourself.

But deep inside underneath all of that rawness there is something else. Sometime that you are hiding.

I try to get you to open up. To share that part of yourself.

To share what you _really_ think underneath the constant chatter.

But you just joke and say "ain't nothing going on in my head."

But that's a lie.

You feel things more deeply than anyone I know. When that kid, Johnny, got beat up, you looked like you've seen a ghost. Not just the day afterwards, but weeks later.

You carried it with you forever.

But you won't talk to me about it.

I get mad at you.

I tell you if I'm your girl you need to talk to me. We nee to have better communication. _Communication is the key to all good relationships._

I was quoting _Cosmopolitan._

You look at me. Your eyes are sad.

"Sometimes, I think I'm broken inside." You try to smile. But your smile is pulled down by the weight of everyone's expectations. And your own.

"I don't want to scare you…" Your voice drifts off. And even though we are sitting in a crowd, you've never seemed so alone.

And even though you are holding my hand, you've never seemed so distant.

But, like that you switch back 'on'; you talk, and make me smile, in spite of myself.

How the heck do you do that?

Five minutes ago I was angry at you. Five minutes ago I wanted to help _you._

 _Five minutes ago, you needed me._

Now I just want you to hold me. To look after me. To protect me. To make me laugh. To help me.

I need you.

You're Sodapop Curtis. The one who fixes everyone. The one everyone leans on. Everyone's best friend.

But no one can fix you.

Because you won't let them.

For someone who is so honest, passionate and unrestrained you have one hell of a guard.

You're the most selfless and the most selfish person I know.

You're clingy. At first, I find it sweet and enduring. Why wouldn't I want a gorgeous guy who worships the ground I walk on?

But then it makes me feel sick.

Because I'm not a goddess, I'm just a girl. And if you fall in love with me, I want you to fall in love with the real me, and not this perfect person you've conjured up in your mind.

You're always around. You never give me space. You're always touching me. Holding me. Petting me.

I like it at first. It makes me feel safe, and desirable.

But sometimes, I just want my space.

But I don't tell you because I don't want to hurt your feelings.

And I don't want anyone else to have you.

You surprise me.

That what makes you so fun. I never know what to expect.

Like the time you skinny dip in the Arkansas River. The cop only tells you to put your clothes on.

You never get in trouble.

You crash parties and go to bars. But you don't drink.

Hardly ever.

You tell me that you get 'drunk of life itself, baby.' It's corny.

From anyone else.

But not from you.

Because you actually mean it.

Your body is perfect. Golden brown. Golden hair. Wavy and soft. Muscular, yet slender.

Tender, wild and sensual. All at once.

I feel like a ball of white butter by comparison.

But you always make me feel beautiful.

You make me feel desirable.

You're a gentle lover. But I feel like there's something missing. Deep down, there is something animalistic and merciless inside of you.

Waiting to come out. Waiting to be let out of your cage.

But you won't let it. You suffocate it. You are your own worst enemy. Aren't you?

And that scares me. It scares me to think that deep down inside, I don't even know you.

That what I see is just a mirage.

You have a temper. It's wild and unbridled. Just like you.

It flashes out of nowhere. It's violent.

When I see it, I feel, for the first time, that you are being yourself.

That this is who you truly are.

Like the day we're in the pool hall and I start flirting with one of Shepard's guys.

Because I'm young and I'm bored.

He touches my breast. I didn't want him to touch me. I scream.

You shred him to pieces. Your eyes are dangerous and for the first time I see a look hate in your eyes. For the first time, I see someone who has the capacity not just to hurt someone, but to be cruel.

And never stop.

But you're still a gentleman. Before you beat up this guy with a cue stick, you ask Two-Bit to escort me out of the place.

"Look after her," you say.

I tell you not to do anything stupid.

You just shrug, "too late." And you smile. A gentle, sweet, reckless grin. With eyes set on kill.

Later I tell you that it's my fault; I flirted with the guy. I led him on.

Your eyes narrow. But you don't get mad.

You just tell me that 'no one should ever touch a girl.' Your voice is sure and commanding.

And I can't take it. The protectiveness, the clinginess, the niceness, the charm, the fighting, the temper, all of it.

It's not your fault. I don't think. At least, it's not _only_ your fault.

When you're gentle, I want to see you fight.

When you fight, you scare me.

I want you to be honest with me, but not scare me. I want you to open up to me, but let me go.

I leave you. But truth is, emotionally, I was never there in the first place.

And deep down, maybe, neither were you.

* * *

Years later I return to Tulsa from Tallahassee. My father has lung cancer.

You're on the street and though you're wasted, you're still beautiful. Still wild.

You ask me for change.

You don't recognize me.

I turn my head, I don't want you to see me. I shake my head 'no.'

"Bitch" you say with a cold contempt that makes me sick.

But before I can get away, you look at me. Your face changes. The cold, blank stare becomes filled with emotion and generosity.

You apologize profusely.

You ask me how I am, and you seem genuinely interested, even if the last time we saw each other was not on the best of terms.

And you're charming.

Goddamnit.

You're _still_ charming.

So we talk. You apologize again. You say you hate people judging you.

And I get it.

Because I _was_ judging you.

You take me out to eat. You don't have much cash on you, so you just get a Coke.

Against my better instinct I let you take me to your house. Your brothers are out.

I ask you why you're panhandling for drug money.

You let out a wild laugh. "I ain't panhandling for drug money, baby. I don't need to. Whatever I want, people give to me. I panhandle because I want some extra dough."

We have sex.

You are not the gentle lover you were back in high school.

But I'm not the same person I was either.

And as weird as it sounds, I find a sense of closure. The more raw you are, the more peace I find.

I'm letting go of my past. Letting go of you. You bite me and my blood turn your lips cherry red.

Just like all those years ago.

You offer to drive me to my parents' house. You offer me your condolences about my dad. You mean it. I think.

In a soft voice you tell me, "from the moment I recognized you on the street, I knew we would fuck."

I ask you how you knew.

"Because everyone always gives me exactly what I want." Your voice is filled with regret and sadness.

And guilt.

But charm. You still got it.

You look out at the distance.

You don't look at me at all.

You still have my blood on your shirt.

And I still have your cut.

* * *

 **S.E. Hinton owns.**

 **Obviously not condoning Soda not wearing a seat belt, but i felt it was a good character insight.**


End file.
